I got mixed up with a small group of Russian drug traffickers operating out of some snowbound region north of the tree line.
Bryan Adams was a social studies instructor, the ringleader of the traffickers, or both. They were trafficking blue crystal meth à la Breaking Bad.
The traffickers invited me to an orgy. One of the Russians, a 40-something blonde with a nice rump, offered said rump to me.
But the orgy was taking place in a small, crapped office with garbage strewn everywhere; my libido was swiftly overtaken by disgust and I couldn’t stand to linger there, so I got the hell out.
The traffickers transformed into MLP-style ponies.
A Lovecraftian deity – probably Yog-Sothoth – showed up and consumed the traffickers.
* * *
and I were each other’s first, true loves. Though we’d been separated at some point in our early teens, we managed to reconnect through the Internet during the late 2000s. Then around 2008, she vanished abruptly. She ceased sending me e-mails and her presence online became nil.
The only physical clue I had to the cause of her disappearance was a case of insulin vials.
* * *
It was frigid and snowing outside. I had come down with a cold, and I was so physically weak that I kept falling over on my face, nearly paralyzed. At some point, I had a fever dream within a dream that I was clumsily trying to make love to a middle aged woman with long, straight, raven-black hair.